He had changed pitifully in the last six months.His hair was a dusty, yellowish gray, like the chemisal on the flanks of Heavytree Hill; his face was waxen white, and blue and puffy under the eyes;his clothes were soiled and shabby, streaked in front with the stains of hurriedly eaten luncheons, and fluffy behind with the wool and hair of hurriedly-extemporized couches.In obedience to that odd law, that, the more seedy and soiled a man's garments become, the less does he seem inclined to part with them, even during that portion of the twenty-four hours when they are deemed less essential, Plunkett's clothes had gradually taken on the appearance of a kind of a bark, or an outgrowth from within, for which their possessor was not entirely responsible.Howbeit, as he entered the room, he attempted to button his coat over a dirty shirt, and passed his fingers, after the manner of some animal, over his cracker-strewn beard, in recognition of a cleanly public sentiment.But, even as he did so, the weak smile faded from his lips; and his hand, after fumbling aimlessly around a button, dropped helplessly at his side.For as he leaned his back against the bar, and faced the group, he, for the first time, became aware that every eye but one was fixed upon him.His quick, nervous apprehension at once leaped to the truth.His miserable secret was out, and abroad in the very air about him.As a last resort, he glanced despairingly at Henry York; but his flushed face was turned toward the windows.
No word was spoken.As the bar-keeper silently swung a decanter and glass before him, he took a cracker from a dish, and mumbled it with affected unconcern.He lingered over his liquor until its potency stiffened his relaxed sinews, and dulled the nervous edge of his apprehension, and then he suddenly faced around."It don't look as if we were goin' to hev any rain much afore Christmas," he said with defiant ease.
No one made any reply.
"Just like this in '52, and again in '60.It's always been my opinion that these dry seasons come reg'lar.I've said it afore.
I say it again.It's jist as I said about going home, you know,"he added with desperate recklessness.
"Thar's a man," said Abner Dean lazily, ez sez you never went home.
Thar's a man ez sez you've been three years in Sonora.Thar's a man ez sez you hain't seen your wife and daughter since '49.
Thar's a man ez sez you've been playin' this camp for six months."There was a dead silence.Then a voice said quite as quietly,--"That man lies."
It was not the old man's voice.Everybody turned as Henry York slowly rose, stretching out his six feet of length, and, brushing away the ashes that had fallen from his pipe upon his breast, deliberately placed himself beside Plunkett, and faced the others.
"That man ain't here," continued Abner Dean, with listless indifference of voice, and a gentle pre-occupation of manner, as he carelessly allowed his right hand to rest on his hip near his revolver."That man ain't here; but, if I'm called upon to make good what he says, why, I'm on hand."All rose as the two men--perhaps the least externally agitated of them all--approached each other.The lawyer stepped in between them.
"Perhaps there's some mistake here.York, do you KNOW that the old man has been home?""Yes."
"How do you know it?"
York turned his clear, honest, frank eyes on his questioner, and without a tremor told the only direct and unmitigated lie of his life."Because I've seen him there."The answer was conclusive.It was known that York had been visiting the East during the old man's absence.The colloquy had diverted attention from Plunkett, who, pale and breathless, was staring at his unexpected deliverer.As he turned again toward his tormentors, there was something in the expression of his eye that caused those that were nearest to him to fall back, and sent a strange, indefinable thrill through the boldest and most reckless.As he made a step forward, the physician, almost unconsciously, raised his hand with a warning gesture; and old man Plunkett, with his eyes fixed upon the red-hot stove, and an odd smile playing about his mouth, began,--"Yes--of course you did.Who says you didn't? It ain't no lie.Isaid I was goin' home--and I've been home.Haven't I? My God! Ihave.Who says I've been lyin'? Who says I'm dreamin'? Is it true--why don't you speak? It is true, after all.You say you saw me there: why don't you speak again? Say, say!--is it true? It's going now.O my God! it's going again.It's going now.Save me!"And with a fierce cry he fell forward in a fit upon the floor.
When the old man regained his senses, he found himself in York's cabin.A flickering fire of pine-boughs lit up the rude rafters, and fell upon a photograph tastefully framed with fir-cones, and hung above the brush whereon he lay.It was the portrait of a young girl.It was the first object to meet the old man's gaze;and it brought with it a flush of such painful consciousness, that he started, and glanced quickly around.But his eyes only encountered those of York,--clear, gray, critical, and patient,--and they fell again.
"Tell me, old man," said York not unkindly, but with the same cold, clear tone in his voice that his eye betrayed a moment ago,--"tell me, is THAT a lie too?" and he pointed to the picture.
The old man closed his eyes, and did not reply.Two hours before, the question would have stung him into some evasion or bravado.
But the revelation contained in the question, as well as the tone of York's voice, was to him now, in his pitiable condition, a relief.It was plain, even to his confused brain, that York had lied when he had indorsed his story in the bar-room; it was clear to him now that he had not been home, that he was not, as he had begun to fear, going mad.It was such a relief, that, with characteristic weakness, his former recklessness and extravagance returned.He began to chuckle, finally to laugh uproariously.
York, with his eyes still fixed on the old man, withdrew the hand with which he had taken his.
